


Worship

by LegendaryBard



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M, i have no idea how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4988677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're an altar.</p>
<p>He can only worship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worship

His knees are tightly bent, pushed against his ribs. It is uncomfortable and stiff, but he is willing, he is not going to complain. His arms are stretched forward, palms flat to the cold ground. His head is bent, his spine curved. His nose brushes the ground, his eyes closed sweetly. The only sound is his breath as it blooms over the cold tile he’s bent on. 

He’s bowed deeply to the object of his affections, and they say nothing, waiting for his move. He looks up, hardly daring to make a sound, and he takes the low nod he receives as permission. He crawls, ungainly scooting on too-long legs and hairy forearms, until his nose rests between two pale, bared feet. The ceremony has not begun, but it’s about to, and he feels cold all over. 

He loves, more than he has before. 

He slowly curls a rough, too-large hand against the pale skin. It’s even colder than he is, and he longs to make it warm. He feels the defined mark of their Achilles tendon, the soft slope of their heel with hands calloused from years of bowstrings and farmwork. He presses a kiss to the center of that cold, bare foot, a flitting touch that was gone as soon as it came, the tips of his fingers lightly scratching over the arch of their foot and dragging out until it hits the ball. He pinches the ball and top of their foot between thumb and forefinger, massaging lightly, and his lips press again, more insistently, trailing up until they reach their ankle. 

Hair comes under his tongue, short and stubbly; they aren’t testosterone driven, evidenced by their slender, somewhat girlish frame and sparse hair, but he does not take any heed. He drags his tongue up, through the hair on their shin, until he reaches their knee, both hands kneading at the muscle of their calf. He presses a light, flitting kiss to the center of their patella, then pulls back, spotting their knee with gentle, just barely touching pecks. He backs away, and presses his nose and body to the ground once more, scuttling back and lifting his arms, up and down, bowing in the presence of his lord. 

His kowtowing ceases after a moment, and he tentatively approaches on all fours, giving the same slow, somber treatment to their other foot, their other calf. Each fluttering kiss is an apology, an acknowledgement of their superiority, an acknowledgement of his love, all in one. 

He unfurls the other’s fingers; usually covered in gloves, but the bared palms and digits are absolutely welcome. He presses a reverent, gentle kiss to both palm and back of their hand, a gesture reminiscent of the gentlemen of old. He sucks their thumb, then index, then middle, then ring, then pinkie, slowly, sweetly. He focuses on the tactile experience; the gentleness, softness, of their skin, the tang of salt from their sweat. He kisses their palm again, up their arm, sucking at the tendon in the wrist. He doesn’t leave a mark on the gentle perfection; he licks sweetly once he’s done suckling, eyeing the skin carefully for any discoloration. He has no reason to fear; their skin is as fair and perfect as it was before he had touched it. He switches to their other hand, cradling their wrist and baring the tender, paled flesh for him to explore and taste. 

“I love you.” He whispers, reverently, into the soft, snowy skin.

He pulls his lips away and repeats it: “I love you.”


End file.
